Eskimo Spit Bath Orchestra

My Soul Music

Jacinto Guevara

(play Canción Mixteca)

I wake up so early in the morning

My life in front of me laid out

All of it-unknown possibility

A purple Saturday madrugada.

Mythological Friday memories

Of magical Echo Park nights

Dreams fading like fog

A sunny Saturday morning.

I must get up so early

For my personal pleasure

And musical education,

And cultural edification.

I make the effort via radio

To hear some música norteña

Flipping from K.W.K.W. to

Radio Kali, San Gabriel.

They play Sandro

Los Teeny Tops, Los Bukis,

Los Blue Notes, Los Tijuana Jets

And Los Angeles Negros.

(play Yo soy tu romántico viajero)

Ay…I endure the manure

Otra crappy rola followed by

 Otra y otra comercial:

Mandaría tu dinero

Orlandi Valuta.

Traiga ese carro ruidoso

Al Pedorerría de Féo Sánchez…

Then! El locator says “Ajúa”

And I hear the screaming chillido

El grito chillón

Del fregado acordeón.

(play El Siete Veredas).

That song-what was it, El Siete Veredas?

I can see fingers flying over white buttons

El bajosexto thumping and clunking

Like tuned trash cans clanging.

While life-crazed rancheros throw chancla

In dusty sierras of Durango

Where still live unos verdugos who

Fought with or against Pancho Villa.

My soul music, ese, mine, all mine.

Give it to me baby, oh, ya, oh…

Wait? What? No! Yes!

Cabrones, they did it again!

They cut El Dueto Alma Norteña!

Used, abused the música of my gente

As a time filler for the

Ka doble U noticiero.

How dare they interrupt my music?

To play a Spanish translation

Of the nothingness I could hear

On any radio station in L.A.

I can read about the under-counted crowds

Demonstrating in McArthur Park,

I can read about the police shooting in City Terrace.

Available in the pinchi Herald Examiner.

I don’t want to hear my soul

Music disrespected for the

Sake of El Noticiero read by

Some…Tijuanero/Chilango/Cubano.

Ladies and gentleman,

Hermanos y hermanas,

Fregones y fregadas

Chingones y chingadas.

You don’t know ‘hate’ as I felt hate

Waiting for the one pieza

To pleasure my soul

With a meaningful-ness.

Only to be whacked,

Destroyed by neglect

Cultural indifference

And the utmost ignore-ants.

I whacked the radio switch off

Oops, wrong switch.

I changed the station to…What?

Japanese? Something about…?

“Ano…? Mate, áneki!

Hitotsu, mitotsu, san…

Linda Lea Theatah,

Toei Fumes escoosifly.”

(play Yawara)

Oh, man, what is this?

My soul elevated, went flying

It went dancing and singing

My radio spoke to me en Japonés

Esa música profunda del alma

So exotic and foreign,

So gutsy and primordial

So civilized and decadent.

These people from…

The market owners, strawberry farmers,

The tourists with clicking cameras,

My neighbors and friends.

What have you been hiding from me?

In your restaurants in Boyle Heights,

Your manicured nurseries in Gardena,

The Nisei parade down town?

(play Nippon Bashi)

Because now and forevermore

When I play canciones and corridos

The redovas and chotíses,

The polkas and marchas.

Of my inspired ancestors,

The compositores of  Tejas,

 Nuevo León, Jalisco

And Mexihco-Tenochtitlan.

(play De Lerdo a Torreón)

Now my soul has a reason

Its’ place on this Earth

I have a connection

An inspiration to all humanity.

Through the same twelve little notes

Delightful easy-complex rhythms

The manipulation of sound and silence

Divisible by odd or even numbers.

At first so exotic

A challenge, a game

In time I get it

We’re all the same.

Copyright 2009 by Jacinto Guevara

ROCK MARAVILLA

Jacinto Guevara

(to be posted after I find the cuaderno)

RAT TURF

Jacinto Guevara

Yes, I am the dog king

I work for Rat, the king of kings

I bark, I bite I do anything

Rat's the boss who controls the strings

I only know what he will show,

 I only go where he controls.

You stepped onto Rat Turf

you'll find out what you're really worth.

The alley's where I hang around.

Don't cry 'cause you've been found.

Lose your face and pocket change

when you fall within Rat's range.

Rat may not be your type.

Rat will pluck you if you're ripe.

Folks living with hunger pangs,

trashsexuals and shin-head gangs.

..Gifts from the alley men

to the alley children.

Dirty walls and broken glass,

pissed off ducks and guitar trash,

beer bottles and cockroach fights.

Sam Cook is open Friday nights.

Weird people and spooky sounds,

marginal men lying on the ground.

copyright 1987 by Jacinto Guevara

ROCKIN' ROLA

Jacinto Guevara

Los besitos of the one I love

son chiquitos like a little dove's.

She's a lady like you're dreaming of.

Ven mamasota dame tu love.

Cuando pido just a little kiss

me da todo I feel like I'm rich,

es el modo every day's like this.

Scratch my heart' cause you make it itch.

She's a little cutie with some big brown eyes.

She knows how to slay me with her lovely thighs.

Mamasota linda como me provoca.

Estoy kind of crazy when I'm with that loca.

Cuando paso por San Antone

la visito solito en su canton.

I yank her boots off y luego de aventon

she screams like Llorana "baby, make me moan".

Now I'm living alla en East L.A.

y la extrano 'cause she's far away.

Going to call her es mi corazon

We can get that feeling on the telephone.

copyright 1986 by Jacinto Guevara

SUPPOSITIONS

Jacinto Guevara

In my established suppositions

There's a universe established

Held together with my ideas

In a more or less meaningful way.

Mine are the imperfect glue that holds together

Mine are the soul that threads throughout

As a marionette in its supremacy

I may artfully manipule life for fun and profit

In a more or less meaningful way.

As my eyes are the imperfect light

That sees or shadows the select delectables

A totality not so total

So that I, and maybe you

may devour life at bite-size pieces.

My whole wide-world went upside down

Spilling gem-like marbles down the toilette

Flushed and dissolved away

Strange things just happened to happen

In bite-size pieces.

I am so devastated and shocked

The shock of brillance dimming

My ancient epiphanies of truth

Now less than devalued

Not melancholy ruins of ancient inspiration

Less than rot that rots my foundation.

Like walking through the Valley of Death

Armed with the baddest bad-ass gun

Braggardly brandishing the weapon of confidence

Gloriously cowering enemies of Man

Finding out half way that my weapon

Has a safety too complicated

For a rotten romantic foundation.

This turmoil, seemingly from Nowhere

Has nothing to do with my wife

Or the divorce she gifted me

For our tenth anniversary present

Nothing to do with turning fifty

And having the mind of a twenty-year-old

Well, maybe a little of that.

And speaking of twenty

That is when epiphanies arose

In my fertile, crap loaded mind

Trying to explain or map-out

The obstacle course that was the world

Of Stalag 1975

Yes, maybe all that.

Those e-PIFF-unus suppositions were my defense

Against that hideous era, circa '75

Of hippy-brat, drop-acid generation

Of disco dancing, platform shoe wearing

Geeks and freaks and Reaganites

Who bore bewildered Slackers.

There is my supposition that girls named Diane

Will have beautiful voices to be cherished

My supposition that guys named Humberto

Will have big blockheads

That guys named Dirk or Dolph

Will suffer the dork life of a dufus

That girls with guy-sounding names

Will grow to be manfloras.

Like my belief of replacement

Replacement supposition

Whispered to confidants and loved ones

Also to little snots of snide personality.

That when you leave forever one place

Arrive and settle in another

You and me might notice

Replacement faces and personalities

In the new place almost like the old

Personalities and faces.

Like when I left Belmont High

The world was Temple-Beaudry and Echo Park

But I moved to C.S.U. Northridge

In the Abyss of the San Fernando Valley

I found myself bewildered and alone

I found myself contemplative of oddities

I found myself walking lost and aimless

I discovered replacements.

The first replacent in my short history

A tall, pink faced gavacho

Passing by and probably aware

Of the surprize in my eyes.

He in his unique life

Was only a replacement in mine

A pink version of the brown one at Belmont

Same shaggy hair and goatee

Same slacking body language

Same tiny eyes seeing the same thing

That would be me.

Now, I know enough sociology

(And I adore criminologists in female form)

That in every group you and me

And go with the flow of life

You be alpha, I'll be class clown

He be kiss-up, she be revolutionary

Tomorrow we switch.

Whether from Shanghai to L.A.

Or Guadalajara to San Francisco

In Austin from Seattle

To San Diego out of Houston

Uncanny replacements are waiting

If you are willing to find them.

You will have a new girlfriend's-sister

You will see, but not approach similar strangers

You will have the reaking, ratty guy in the library

The same desperate blues guitarist

The same aunt you rarely see

The same street person who assumes

You feel sorry enough to support his habits.

There was the blind accordionist in '94

Unaware and so aware of all around him

But again I saw him in New Braunfels in '99

A replacement? I must assume.

Such is the power of supposition

It thrives on usage and assuaging

Suppositions become beliefs

Growing or festering

As you feed and fertilize them

Assuming so much meaning.

Way back, a million years ago

Not as far back as the '70s

Prolific decade of my suppositions

But in 1985 began

My illustrious rock career.

More, the attitude and the compulsion

That I must stake a claim

Make a cultural statement

Unleash an assault of identity

Using an accordion as weapon

Into the Hollywood haunts of Rock.

From the Recycler

The musicians' equipment junk source

I sought and found junk

A Farfisa organ sold by Tom Byars

He and his band I met during its practice

And as with many L.A./Hollywood bands

We become friends and colleagues.

Later, probably in '86

I or Tom got a gig at Al's Bar

Venerable Punk stop from another age

This was a drastic change of venue for

The East Los "cultural" músico.

I undertook the making of a flyer

Announcing this show of shows

I asked Tom the name of his band

In soothing North Carolinese

He profoundly stated 'Out Of the Far'

So such is what I drafted

Prominent, but underneath 'Alienz'

The band I played and fought with.

That gig changed me to a showcaser

Of original song and style

Open and appreciative of the unique

Dedicated, and daring

Desperate and despondent.

Come now twenty years later

The blind accordion player

Is Pete the Basque

My accordion chat-mate

On a waste of time called

Yahoo Button Squeezebox.

Shock of shock, 'cause it turns out

Pete the Vasco of Austin

Was the Casio keyboardist in Out of the Fire

Which in soothing North Carolinese

Is pronounced 'Out of the Far'

from faraway 1985 L.A.

My suppositions have erroded slowly

Almost imperceptiveley over the years

Pete the Basco, blind accordionist

has melodiously rid the room

Of my adored supposition.

copyright 2007 by Jacinto Guevara